


-AB INTRA-

by hyacinth_lea



Category: VIXX
Genre: Actually a peculiar kind of slow burn, Alternate Universe - Assassins & Hitmen, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Magic, Alternate Universe - Royalty, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Alternate Universe - Utopia, Arranged Marriage, Assassination Attempt(s), Enemies to Lovers, Flower Magic, Hanahaki Disease, If you are into final fantasy you may dig it, M/M, Other tags and pairings to be added, Rating May Change, Slow Burn, Sort Of
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-09
Updated: 2020-02-09
Packaged: 2021-02-28 06:01:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,771
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22619062
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hyacinth_lea/pseuds/hyacinth_lea
Summary: Vorago has always been seen as the definition of perfection--its unbiased justice a form of true love for the nation it holds dear under its name. Something which once rang of truth now becoming a bittersweet lie, one which makes Hongbin unable to comprehend how judgement twisted to the point it now finds itself trapped in a deception. A gracious place now taking the darker meaning of its name.A tarnished garden by the void, entangled in threads reeking of sulphur--a slow downfall to its purity. And Hongbin's name is forced to be forgotten--until thorns reach him in an attempt to suffocate him.
Relationships: Cha Hakyeon | N/Lee Hongbin
Kudos: 17
Collections: Intoxicating - NBIN NEVER ENDS / mod collection





	-AB INTRA-

**Author's Note:**

> And at last, the biggest project which intoxicating team decided to tackle comes to be a reality. An idea that expanded and turned into a world which we didn't expect would end as big as it did plot wise and magnitude wise. If you are here about to read, do know that this project is one that we hold dear to our hearts~ two of the mods have been working hard on it for it to be what it is now.
> 
> We hope that you enjoy reading this adventure, we surely enjoyed creating it.

Immersing in streets that are supposed to be the definition of home had never been as disquieting as it is now, with once pristine marble offering a sense of protection now only presenting in its walls nothing but an imminent clash of familiarity and ever rising anxiety which hastily crawls its way through its crevices--agitation weaving itself around steps that used to hold power to them now making uncertainty leave its print in white stone path roads. It makes his breath come to a brief halt in his throat, cautiousness taking a hold of every movement, a shield that attempts guarding him from any unwarranted attention he may bring in his direction. Tranquility used to surround him, when his steps would lead him through streets in the same confident manner they would through hallways at the place that he had come to define as home. With freedom, when the need to look behind his back whenever dread entangled around his body every other minute was nonexistent. 

The knowledge to melt into the crowd has now become a second nature to him, the need for invisibility to someone who once was radiant in the eyes of many now a _must_ in his life. One of many now, of a sea of faces that-- _he has become aware_ \--don’t really have that much meaning in the current reality. Just a decoration for the regal landscape that surrounds each citizen, just a number that could diminish without a second thought. Yet everyone seems to bury any concern in the darkest depths of their minds, all logic that could plague them muted for all is fair in their eyes. And there is blind love manifesting there, a blind love Hongbin knows far too well for it rushes in his veins with more intensity than it would anyone else. Yet, standing on the other side makes Vorago unfold as a daunting breathtaking monstrosity ready to swallow him whole shall its _rightful_ judgement decide it is the ideal course of action.

It’s contradictory to believe that the country will decide to choose precisely _that_ outcome, that the streets of Aranea will dare entrap him in an intricately formed web of beauty ready to press its threads against his skin and rob oxygen out of him till he mingles with the air and back into its soils--but Hongbin can’t allow it all to just rely on the sheer luck that has blessed him so far. 

His concerns are focused on some peculiar faces he sees, on the constant murmuring which reaches his ears as his steps take him closer to his destination-- _it’s a mirage._ A faux tranquility some are using to mask their worries, hushed clamours that everything is disguised in a fake definition of perfection, passing like a flower in full bloom to cover the truth. The reality of it all hitting Hongbin now that the protective walls crumbled even for someone like him. His thoughts attempt to stay level-headed, hands grabbing tightly at the sides of his cloak, grasping it in an attempt to keep himself grounded to the soils and pose as a regular passerby--one whose choice of thoughts for the day are tinges or turmoil and preoccupation tainting his visage, even if a far better choice would have been to pretend feigned ignorance. To keep on walking if those common shots ever disrupts the pure perpetual spring air that envelops him and make his heart sting at the notice. In the short time he has been in this situation, Hongbin has learnt to play both types of citizens with grand skill ever since he had to learn how to behave like a regular one--concerned capital young man and clueless boy that has in Aranea a vision of perfection both masterly coming to life in his pupils. 

The pretense makes his stride match with that of outsiders that are walking the same path he is, the sound of his boots mingling with that of the many others who come for a taste of what Aranea is like, walking without worries embracing him as the capital feigns a welcome--a sip of sublimity that courses through their system and transforms in wonderment, eyes widening, taking in the scenery, a perfect painting of the finest marble, chains of flowers decorating each structure in a defending caress while bringing life to the city. _Aranea_ , so beloved and judged, so loving and ready to condemn even if it caresses visitors and inhabitants both with that fresh breeze that brings certainty that anyone could stay forever in this definition of daydream so far as they listen. 

Hongbin sighs, the general unawareness of how anxiety inducing it _actually_ is to walk the main square's stone covered ground truly mystifies him. How no one can tell that finding a safe way to advance through the city is like a chess game--one which he has learnt to be a step ahead of before any opportunity of checkmate arises. The wish that he could be as unsuspecting as everyone else forms itself ephemerally in his mind, yet he is aware it is in vain. He is someone who can sense sulphur impregnating each crevice of his cherished city, inhaling it almost instantly whenever the webs of fright embrace anyone who even remotely poses a threat--and so, wishing to not be aware becomes pointless. 

He is perhaps too alert and it is being displayed in the way there is at times a far too light intercepted manner to his stride, but Hongbin knows that maybe anxiety is the one doing the talking--making him avoid any gaze that comes his way, any odd look that could detect the uneasiness coursing. He fixes the hood of his cloak as a precaution measure to hide his features--an action he deems as necessary, while fixing his gaze on the ground becomes his main focus as he picks up his pace. 

His destination isn’t that far from the spot he currently is at, the National Museum of Vorago being discernable the closer his steps take him. It’s somehow easing him, seeing that quite an amount of people are directing their steps that way as well, taking solace in the fact that a visit into a little part of Vorago won’t result in anything strange in a youth his age. When many others are doing the same, it won’t be seen as suspicious that a young man steps in with seemingly no more intention than indulging in a piece of the most beautiful void. And it strikes him that perhaps today he is being blessed, that his walls won’t need to be permanently up if things keep unfolding this way.

It’s never less enthralling whenever he is greeted by the marble entrance, grand and imposing, pillars towering with power while two sets of staircases lay unfolded--like a welcoming embrace that calls for the public to venture in, walk the alabaster marble, caress the carved golden flower railing. Dive deep, it’s a piece of the void, dive in its staggering nature--today everyone is allowed to. It greets him like an old friend, or perhaps a child that’s coming back to visit his hometown--nostalgia always downpouring over him of memories that are now nothing but that, which won’t continue to be formed in this city.

He reaches the steps, waiting for his turn behind a group of eager tourists that seem in awe of standing at this place. Hongbin briefly hears whispers of astonishment, they filter through his ears _.’Ah it just had to be Vorago’_ they say, with eyes focusing on the round platform before the entrance, marvelling the inked gold in ivory stone. There is a weak smile forming on his lips as he waits, yet he permits himself to get lost in transitory reverie with overwhelming jasmine holding him tightly in its embrace. A scent that lovingly greets him, a silent welcome especially to him from their spot, vines tied, latching tightly to their mission of decorating the grand door--and Hongbin knows that if he were with the most important person to him right now, he would be told that they love him and want to guide him well. _‘Thank you and sorry_ ’ he mouths, for the wishes of good luck, for the inability to fully listen to them--a noiseless exchange only for his understanding. 

His steps take him to grand door where the usual procedure for any regular citizen awaits--halted at the entry by a figure cladded in a white cloak embroidered in golden threads that mark the nation’s treasure, insignia of beauty, definition of hell. The man before him takes in his features, leans forward slightly before any words come from him, “No scent” Hongbin nods as a response, “Original from Aranea?” 

“Ever since I was born” there is no quiver in his voice when he says that for the truth is something he wouldn’t be able to deny not even if the day of judgement came--sole information he can say with certainty. A fact that can’t be changed and became visible to him before he could tell it to stop, haunting him even for carrying the weight of the name engraved in the deepest parts of him. For carrying the meaning of Vorago inked in the vessels of his blood. 

His gaze finds enough a cover when he looks down, the unwavering stance to announce his origins now replaced with an overwhelming desire not to have any sort of contact that could make any error occur. His eyes don’t dare pry away from the marbled floor beneath his feet, awaiting for the gruff hum from the guard to reaffirm his decision of finally allowing Hongbin inside the museum. They are men of little to no words, pride solely lying in the cloth that covers them--in being chosen. Hongbin just nods when he hears the confirmation, calling for it to make his facade somewhat believable, and it may be explendid job for the pseudo naivety makes itself distinguishable even in the way he cocks his neck almost awkwardly. Unease unable to be kept at bay even if he looks genuine, only finding it in himself to breathe again once his path is free of such daring white as the pristine uniform of the guard. 

It’s transitory though, for the brief calm is replaced by a fragrance that assaults him and effectively manages to paint a grim expression on his features--eyelids shutting to make a layer of darkness cover his vision. It’s an scent too strong to enjoy as others do, but it’s always there filtering through his nostrils and reminding him that he has never been fond of them--peonies have never been a flower he has found dear after all. They behave like a mock reminder of what his name holds, the negative meaning of them just but plain ridicule in his eyes--akin to words he cannot drive away from his mind when the perfume makes his lungs burn in an odd way. But that’s their welcome back, testified when he sets eyes on them hanged right past the guard--but Hongbin tears his gaze apart from them, overview of the entrance hall now greeting his pupils.

It may not be truly discernible to the definition of inconsistent visitor that drops by every other year, but for Hongbin it is always a notable difference he can never stop himself from identifying--that peculiar emptiness of the grand entrance hall albeit there being a plethora of small groups scattered all throughout its interior. Idle chatter from its members enough to form a constant buzz which sits high on the ceiling resonating to form a colourful echo of fascination and wonderment that manages to reach the entrance of the area--where Hongbin resides, head tilted for an easier view of the ceiling to grace his irises. The principal detail of what otherwise would be a cold room, a welcoming attire that gives the hall the necessary warmth it desires. The flowers make it all come to life though, entangling themselves all around the golden accents that adorn walls and halls, crawling across different sculptures that ornament the first floor to let them be aware they are sole property of the nation. Positioned in such intricacy all over the first floor it could well be a hidden strategy to give a distant sensation to any newcomer--display of grandeur abound. 

The glass dome feels akin to an illusion, raising the stained glass ceiling high against the sky, a chimera the would fool anyone that first lays sight on it as it gives the vision it reaches the clouds, pinning the sun down against the intricate design each piece forms--their transparent face making light pool gingerly on the occupants’ figures as a result and urging them to wander deeper into what the almost surreal imagery the museum has to offer. It’s an ever changing place, ephemeral as the flowers which are already wilting away around him--only the peonies are stronger, no matter how much he wished the bouquet of lavender framing a portrait near him would be able to drown the scent he’s encaged in. Even so, the briefest of smiles lifts the corners of his lips ever so slightly--the otherwise cool room somehow making a brief sense of warmth course through him fleetingly as he indulges for someconds in the nice contrast of the sun rays illuminating his face. It stirs something within him, a feeling only replicated by the place he called home, on early mornings spent in front of the massive windows facing the gardens he misses dearly.

The tranquility he is enveloped in however is fickle, high pitched laughter tearing at his shoulder blades due to the close proximity effectively seizing him from a state of calm he had allowed himself to fall into. The closeness of an undefined number of voices approaching ever closer has Hongbin scrambling away, heavy breathing forcing its way out of his body as he escapes from the eagerness the foreign tunes leave on their wake. Head pushed down now, with hands gripping hastily at the material of his hood before it completely falls from his face--the hold is firm, urgency too present as he fixes it so that it can frame his face properly once more and hide any strands of dyed brown hair in case of stray curiosity from the people he found himself too close to. 

The discordant blend of laughs and whispers is one and the same as a humanoid chatterbox, nickname he wishes to give to any of the tourists groups within the museum at first glance, but this one is bigger in mass next to others which have walked past and enough for him to make his way in without much fuss when a pair of guards draws near them--the addition of one more person unnoticeable when those surrounding him are full of amazed gaps and blind admiration for what lies in the middle of the hall, the sun’s shine imitating a halo alongside the flowers’ edges. 

It comes as anything but a surprise for Hongbin to see the familiar play of spider lilies threaded around a wire armature as to make an arc tall enough to touch from the other floor if one tried to lean onto the golden metal railing and extend their arm even if just briefly. Dominant and fiery in its ever lasting colour---bright enough to lure one for its beauty, like a trap fitted only for a flower with a meaning as the one that belongs to their nation. And only now does the realization fully dawn on Hongbin’s mind, wrapping itself around his consciousness to make him notice how scarlet vividly imposes power upon anyone that glances their way--harsh courage to approach them only displayed by the King’s royal florists who are capable of doing such astounding work. A piece of art that gives the flowers life, so much that it’s enough to make anyone feel small and little to nothing once close enough to touch.

Hongbin allows himself to blend into the group that makes the beginning of their voyage known as they cross the marble salon, silently following their path inside and mingling as his eyes remain focused on the flower arrangement--eyes following the intricate waterfalls of wisteria that beckon people to come closer. Albeit being part of the same arrangement--the wisteria chains don't complement the lilies in any way no matter how few they are,only aiding in hiding the hotness of the crimson entity beneath muted purple--it reminds Hongbin of a false idea of peace, for what hides beneath such facade never comes out in anyone’s favour, not even for those who tried to hide their true nature in the first place. 

The sound of his boots resonates in unison to that of woman’s walking right beside him, eyes briefly focusing on her just enough to take in one characteristic: she’s young and her voice is varnished with evident excitement when they are finally close enough to the impressive arrangement. And Hongbin wonders how it would be to share the same emotions as those people in the same way he did once, in another moment in time where he wasn’t in hold of the knowledge he is tied to now. He sees the solid group lose its form, dispersing all around beneath the sea of flowers--curiosity and fascination falling in a cadence of silent gasps to see the hanging flowers so close.

They’re to move to another salon soon, Hongbin is able to notice with the way the guide is trying to call them to his side and continue the normal course of the tour--should be a sculpture collection showcasing the history of Omnia, if the presentation hasn't been changed, situated right across the hall and into the salon one would walk to if they were to follow the same direction as the middle aged employee. To this day Hongbin finds the rapid changes of the museum an odd thing, yet it truly shows the nature of their land, where the only constant will always be their flowers, with the beauty and sins they hold deeply buried within their stems.

When the abundant excitement leaves in another direction, Hongbin’s hand reaches out to the arrangement, picking a lone flower with weary hands, with uttermost care not to rip the fragile petals with a touch too rough. His face is a mix of emotions, painting his expression in a different way than how he feels when a shy smile takes hold in total contrast to the sadness that swirls in his irises. The one to defend him being in his grasp now only reminds him that he is not to be safe--no matter how much he tells himself that these walls are enough to calm his fear. But the royal flower knows more, reminding him of his status now with ease. Those walls are enough to quench his fear, and the flowers he knows so well remind him with ease. 

_‘What's wilted will be changed for something better, worthy and capable of holding high their meaning the same way the arc’s flowers are only the freshest’,_ his memory evokes, someone probably having told him once when younger--perhaps in a visit of a different nature. And it comes the only thought occupying his mind until his mind is able to register a sudden lack of voices, once again alone among spider lilies reminding him that life may come to an end instantly. The flower in his grasp wittering. 

And at the sight, frail sense of security shatters in an identical manner, mind thrown back to the very beginning of this. The petals crumble at his feet, as if it were a display especially for Hongbin to show him that no matter how stealthy he is or how well he knows the place--there is no way for him to fully hide his nature. A thought he shouldn’t be reminded of, but Hongbin has already conjured in his mind just how the flower may start whispering his fate to him, the only one he can hear, the one that forces distress into his system--and somehow he still loves them, like the idea of a first love engraved in him and unable to fully rid of. But the distress it was to whisper is actually amplified by something actually _‘tangible’_ when a sole guard strides past him, wrist enveloped in growing royal flowers protruding from his skin--daunting scarlet, symbol of sins.

The blood in his veins freezes on the spot, already wearied lungs trying their best to find a way for air to crawl back to them without any option but to allow for sulphur to settle in his body. Hongbin clenches his jaw at the sight given by the red spider lilies which engulf the man’s hands completely--albeit not visible to the naked eye and only a mere phantasm of the person's darkest secrets and lies, they still bounce ever so slightly due to the rapid stroll across the room which leaves Hongbin’s sight just as fast as he entered it. Hongbin gives in from the temporary terror he faced, legs sprinting for the hallway at _‘which end’_ he knows what to expect: a way out, a way to his much needed safety for his own hands are now aflame with a painful truth which doesn’t belong to him. Not as if it ever belonged, yet the base of his nation and the callers of right judgement in the forms of hell’s flowers have always adorned the hands of those born in Vorago whenever an inhuman act was done--a perfect way for someone to be sentenced accordingly and without any favoritism.

Hongbin almost rolls his eyes at the voice he has memorised saying those words, always being reminded to be proud of holding the means of judgement but Hongbin’s pride had turned into burning and asphyxiating scent of hell diving into his skin--and being one of the few able to feel it was now something he couldn’t cope albeit all the love once present. After all, it never was anything more than a definition, one which still makes his way deep into his mind till it bubbles an annoyed scoff out of him, the annoyance meant to showcase mixed into the deep breath he exhales, trying to pick up the pace now that the hallway was free of any passerby-- _enough time was lost already_. He learnt the hard way how everything is but a mirage, a story told for the citizens when the higher ups exploit the true meaning of the flower in twisted ways and after all, there was no reason to shed tears about it.

So he moves, letting something akin to what one would call a peculiarity of his manifest; the need to stop and take in the new face of each room and find solace in the architecture which always stays the same. Grandiose in ways he had always found bittersweet in the resemblance they have to the palace’s ballroom--memories of childhood and teenage days unfolding before his eyes, like a play in which he was part of the cast when happy days were abundant. And a far closer one as well that evokes screaming and a haze of mad dashing playing in his mind, sulphur trying to entrap him.

Hongbin's quick to carry his steps back to a steadier tempo as if it were for him to keep the same pace he started with would only end up in his disadvantage and somehow get the attention of those he's running away from, body engulfed into the shadow of the flower arc now behind him as if ready to drag him back and fill his lungs. It takes him to a far open area, a round platform beneath him with set of steps making their way into a grand hallway connecting the two areas of the museum.

Breaths come off unstable, the shaking of his hands bothersome till he finally approaches the border of the platform and there's an echo--short and brief due to the nature of his steps and at the same time an expected reaction which brings comfort with the help of the hollow atmosphere. Hands finding rest in the balustrade--grateful to his luck no groups are making their ways to the gardens. 

But his rhythm is thrown off by what he suspects to be a family, startling him as they walk up the steps right ahead of him and he quickly turns around--casting his eyes on one of the paintings at one of further walls, as if he had forgotten to see it in his trip and had to tattoo it's image in his mind before advancing. It is one he doesn't remember ever seeing before yet it's too far for him to see anything in detail other than what seem to be yellow field flowers glued to the dark wooden frame. There's no chance for him to wonder of its origins for the clear disappointment rolled around the older woman's words make Hongbin freeze, hand gripping the cloak again as it takes a moment too long for the meaning of her sentence to settle in how it should.

Hongbin never thought he'd live the day the royal wing would be off limits, its importance and popularity being a main pillar for the maintenance of the museum itself as so many come only to get a glimpse at the Royal life so many generations had lived--or _at least,_ a sweet replica of it meant to deceive the ones who never stepped inside the palace before or learnt its secrets. The palace wasn't always an enigma for the population of Vorago and now it's known to be similar to a forbidden piece of knowledge so few which aren't of royal blood have the privilege to get hold of--its doors having been closed ever since a fated date early marked Hongbin's childhood, something he still keeps begging his mind to forget too many times to no avail.

It's marked with ruin, with a disastrous dissonance that still rings in Hongbin's mind whenever he allows himself to dwell on the thought. There is a slight shake of the head, bringing himself to the current moment even if even descending the staircase before him proves to be a gargantuan task--mind wanting to escape in useless musings of how fate would have been different if that day had never existed. His hands hold tightly to the bracelets that he dons on each wrist, gaze fixed on the view before him--the royal wing awaiting still far from him showing itself in an undefined sight, asking of him to venture further, calling for one of its children present to step into its reigns.

The news of the place being closed had seeped through him in the most bitter of ways, but change had come to Aranea--and while unforeseen, the pain of knowing this still ached. Bond running in the profundity of his being. He is grateful that he knows of this however, even if his body is tensing as he stands in the beginning of the massive hallway--laughter from a presumed guard making him consider the next action with the greatest of care.

White columns grow in height right in front of his eyes and the path seems to unfold like an ancient parchment inked in gold, ceiling held high by alabaster stoned columns aiding in parting the indoors garden in two. Hongbin standing in the middle of it all, unable to take in the true nature of the garden and rejoice in their similarity to home--and he only hopes for the angels outlined in golden strokes on the round ceiling to guide his path if his day of judgement isn't today. 

But alert rises higher than the ceiling looking at him from above when the voice of yet another guard warns him of imminent danger, potentially awaiting to leave stains of scarlet that will go back to the source of it all after everything is done with. His head snaps back, frantically searching for the owner of the voice only to lock his gaze onto the four men coming from one the garden on his left and he breaks into cold sweat as he runs behind one of the columns, body flushed against it and heart ready to tear his chest apart when the ability to breathe or think leave him momentarily. 

The ever growing proximity between him and the source of his anxiety ever since he stepped inside successfully manages to steal his senses, vision blurry and hearing numbed when he swears one of the guards is calling in his direction--and he knows they aren't calling for _him_ , as a fifth man dressed in the same ghostly white as the others walks right past him. Yet he can only pray they haven't seen him and he urges his mind to calm down, slow the accelerated succession of thoughts in a futile try to find a way to get past them--process which ends up in a frustrated sigh because of the constant interruptions caused by the idly chat of yet another group of visitors seated in the garden across him, all too preoccupied with the roses tangled around the off white fountain to even realise the number of guards which has appeared unexpectedly.

They are too big to have grown naturally, petals coloured in a perfect gradient of white and a myriad of pinks that differ from rose to rose--modified, as if there weren't already enough things that had been torn apart from their natural state to fit the standards needed for the Empire of Vorago. They entangle themselves around pillars, unaware of the forceful change they have been made undergo just to be a perfect decoration for the fountain in front of him and the round pergola to the other side of the garden. Hongbin hasn't really had contact from up close with the roses themselves, only having ever let books having given him the means to visualize them--but their modified nature calls for his gaze to not focus elsewhere, and what an addictive view that is for they aren't from this nation and one doesn't know what they are capable of.

It's impossible for him to know what secrets can be hidden in between petals or the atrocities they could do but the fact that he connects with them is more than enough to reassure him that they are a great distractor, perhaps the most breathtaking one that anyone in the museum will ever have laid eyes upon. It's only a sole touch at the palm of his hand, eyes falling close momentarily--a simple trick that he hopes works in order for himself to be defended by those that depict love in different forms. There is no particular incantation for this, only visualizing and hoping it will bring optimal results.

It could be considered a childish prank, but the advantage that these species which have been modified gives him the upper hand--and it unveils itself before his eyes quite easily, vines growing at a rapid speed, flowers blooming all over, enough to bury the pergola underneath it and be a one time only attraction. It manifests in something tangible, from imagination into reality when he hears people letting out gasps of astonishment and guards rushing to the other side of the garden. Urging people to take their distance.

His motions are taken care off from that moment since with more care, taking a look at the pergola's roses going out of control, and Hongbin can't help but to have a smirk plastered in his face at how they can fall at a simple trick like that one. But it's something that gives him great pride, having learnt it way back when he was a child. 

When there is certainty that the guards are too focused in trying to keep this problem under control, Hongbin takes this as the opportunity to rush down in direction towards the royal wing. Steps making haste, a throwback to home awaiting for him. He still hears the guards yelling at it to stop, but Hongbin just smiles, with a bit of confidence after having been drowning in anxiety-- it won't stop until he decides, even if roses will be scattered all over the area that holds Vorago's story in its possession, roses all over where the flower of hell grows.

And the representation of royalty receives him, steps echoing as he sets foot in the royal wing--recalling of a life that was his not too long ago playing in his mind as a mix of welcoming and aversion crushes him. It's Vorago who wants him, the nation itself. And he allows to be embraced by nostalgia as the grand salon presents itself with a heavy air as he walks in.

There is no plausible way to avoid the shudder that courses through him, he wishes it could be blamed on the tiles and their glacial sensation seeping through the soles of his boots--but it's an artic call out to his name, pinpointed in the uncanny similarity this salon holds to the palace and albeit not being there, it's overwhelming. Too true as it unveils itself like the most accurate painting or a piece of it that had been ripped to be put in the public eye. Solemnity looming above him in the form of the vaulted ceiling engraved in nothing but memories of a story that latches tightly onto him--glory and sins aplenty that accumulated in unfairness only for being holder of the name.

He knows he should rush, but his steps slow down as he lets himself be surrounded by the tiled bronze coloured floor, each design reminding him that this is fit for a ballroom in its ornamental nature and it feels as if an invitation was being extended to him. The faintest tune of a waltz plays in his head, and it seems like all shines brightly as that aura of the palace--but it’s engraved in Hongbin’s mind, etched carefully like the muted accents of the floor, that not so long in a similar colourful place that could have been a dream, everything came to an end in a mad dash. A blurry haze that repeats itself endlessly, that only Aranea had it in its web to save him and it chose to.

And so he dashes inside the hall and further into the depths of the place, not minding the two other salons that call for him to access them, relive the fantasy with such urgency it seems like everything is going to melt upon touch and take Hongbin with it and then back to his own reality. 

There is almost a dramatic flair attached to the way he is encased in such regal surroundings as he reaches the deeper side of the wing, grandiose disclosing itself in a great magnitude when faced with the grand staircase that gives access to the second floor where a greater showcase of imposing structures lies--history painted in balconies and rooms. It’s resplendent, steps unfurling upwards, making Hongbin’s sight inevitably follow them--longing inducing as he craves to touch the detailed railing that resembles the falling leaves of Omnia sculpted in marble and with unique yet agitated strokes of deep gold which slowly lose themselves to a burgundy tint. 

It’s a call to God itself meant to induce that deep devotion for all begins and ends like that, scattered in leaves when all returns to the source of life itself. He stands in the middle of it all, with two grand halls whispering that the way out resides in them. And his eyes follow each step, with that same devotion as any other inhabitant of Vorago would, craving for the feel of the marble under his soles and the light touch of the railing to be ever close to Omnia--yet his face falls when his eyes focus on the grand stained glass window portraying the insignia which he cannot help but dread. Treasure of the nation,a sole red spider lily unfolding its devilish wings in tinted glass. It reminds of an awful acquaintance, or rather said family member which never leaves him alone, judgmental and inexplicably hateful despite the beautiful exterior; all characteristics he shouldn’t have intertwined together at the sight. 

Yet he still does, the stylized stained glass before him prompting him to take a few steps back--a piece of home in the museum itself, a gift from the king to the nation. A reminder that red spider lilies will forever call for much more than their meaning and now they carry more than rightful unbiased judgement with it. A judgement that not even he would be able to escape.

But it’s a trial that is not to take place this day, for Aranea itself will make sure it’s not so--like its just view did once. Hongbin takes a turn to his left, hastily running through a haze of rich burgundy that attempts to entrap him in his way. Steps leaving anxiety behind and only holding urgency solely with them and determination in their wake. Destination being a salon where a trip to the past can be made, secrets held tight to walls in yearning to be read--and he hopes for his brief visit into this place to be led by the sovereigns who once carried Vorago on their shoulders and for their spirits to deem him worthy once more of access to the depths.

His feet take him to the salon which has years of history tightly latching onto walls--old papyrus spreading across the room, lighting up marble and golden walls. Replicas, for the real ones are saved in between the walls of the museum and unable to be touched even by someone like him. But history displays itself as Hongbin rushes, like a play given for an audience that would stare at him from the balconies from the second floor--a silent invisible audience that awaits for Hongbin to put an end to his visit, leave with a grand applause, prove how sulphur can get to run throughout his system too.

And he meets with it yet again, at the back of the room, sole representation of the ones whose name will forever be tied to it--a bouquet of the devilish scarlet flower engraved in the walls, at eye level to taunt him, test him. Daunting ancient gold infused with rubies cladding every single petal with enthralling grace that deceives into asking for their spectators touch, but no one does this--unless the flower deems it worthy, for it leads to the only way of protecting the royal family.

A light touch lingers over it, Hongbin's hand makes contact with it--rubies shining under his touch, crimson flowing through the stems of the bouquet in a myriad of lights that serves as indication that he has been accepted to enter territory only known to those that had ever faced an emergency critical enough to let the city choose the path to salvation. It highlights a shape tall enough for it to be called a door, passage to access the other side that he is now common visitor of. And it vanishes right in front of Hongbin's eyes, carmine dust shining in front of him, metallic scent filling him. An entrance to a puzzle known as the tunnels of Vorago has opened for him once more, and he can only leave it to Aranea to decide if he succeeds in leaving or if the city falls over him.

The hesitancy of the first time he ever found that these tunnels exist fades as he ventures in, one of the mystical corners of the museum made for cases of emergency that any whose blood is valuable enough can access. It’s enough a cover, a shield that shifts in form depending on what part of Aranea is above it, encasing Hongbin in a momentary darkness as the wall behind him materializes again leaving the marble behind to now be surrounded by a dome of onyx bricks that shine with white flames that welcome their guest, to lead the path underground. Hongbin leans against the wall and taps his foot against the metal platform he is standing at, letting a sigh of relief escape his lips while his fingers grace against the black metal railing and his sight follows the path to the round flight of stairs that will aid his descend. 

Relief courses through him, for right now his fate has only been left to his beloved city where no prying eye will glance his way--not even if curiosity takes hold. Hongbin throws his head back, hood falling off in unison and allowing for an ephemeral moment where he can be the remains of himself to take place, feet taking him to the edge of the staircase and rapidly descending off it. Like the swirl of a waltz into protection--just him and the city to grace this soil. 

Boots echo when he is at the bottom, sound resonating against the dome hovering above him--perhaps an answer in the form of vibration to congratulate his achievement and to remind that there is only emptiness spreading in front of him and haunting him at his back. His resolve doesn't waver, still choosing to journey into the rounded path, letting its amplitude provide him with much needed security after all the tension has been left behind alongside alabaster and gold. 

There is dust falling every now and then the more he progresses inside, albeit this being one of the newer tunnels--it’s still many years old yet far more resistant than the one he first faced in his life. He brushes the dust off his hair, fingers raking through it in an attempt to make himself presentable for his destination calls for such. Hongbin is grateful that his hair dye is recent, for there probably won’t be as major damages to it while walking through the tunnels--yet the breeze that comes from an unknown direction still worries him, humidity could ruin it. And that’s something he hopes doesn’t happen for his original hair colour was something that he was always told to take pride in, now masked behind dark auburn. 

After all, that’s the one trait that would unveil his identity in a place which the symbol of his status can only be discerned like that. Guards would recognize it in one glance, faster than they would his visage, and he can only just laugh weakly at that irony. Yet at least, they are not who he is, they won’t ever access through this place unless someone leads them into the void’s puzzle just so protection could be granted. 

And the brooding atmosphere plastered in its walls makes a vague thought enter Hongbin’s mind--whether if at some point any other previous ruler thought that actual blood of Vorago would ever find themselves using the city as a shield, or if there was ever fear of intruders entering sacred untold territory that was only meant to be a veil to them. Hongbin wonders what the spirits see in him as his stride becomes hastier--whether they consider him actual blood of Vorago or an outcast that has no business there and is only being tested before all collapses all over him.

Yet the city is benevolent in its rightful view of everything, leading his path into a rounder far open space that makes curtains of light fall all over a silvery stoned path--it’s one of the main round plazas, the one near where his destination stands. Round white stone giving a stop to every citizen and visitor before they reach one of the most important points in the country--the Sacred Cathedral of Omnia’s Will. 

He can even hear from his spot how the resonance of bells echoes all over the city, vibrating against the walls of the tunnels, calling for the inhabitants to attend the midday mass it holds today due to an _‘special occasion’_. And he would run across the plaza and dash inside the Cathedral if he could-- but he can only lead the tunnels lead him through the safest path. Steps still guiding him through a far more encasing space yet still big enough for at least two people to walk through it.

White flames illuminate his face and Hongbin is glad for the space provided or else the fire would touch him. But all seems to go well, Aranea has chosen to once again let him made it through this area, providing him now with a metal ladder, railings giving the impression that they were formed of black leaves that were going to shatter upon touch and return to Omnia but firm enough to hold Hongbin’s weight as he goes up, each step taking him closer to the exit--an alleyway some streets away from the Cathedral, but close enough for him to reach it before the mass loses its most interesting moment. 

On the last step his eyes land on that familiar insignia now being formed from black metal in the middle of a square cover--his palm lands on it, silver flows unlocking the cover so that Hongbin can emerge once more into the streets that are his board game for the day.

Natural light embraces him once again, boots now making contact with firmer ground. Alleyways are something Hongbin had never known of, but he can’t help find them fascinating now--the entrapping allure they hold akin to an embrace by Aranea. Or a trap, depending on who is the one making their way through them. Even like this, it’s similar in structure to the rest of the capital, with a warmer tone holding tightly to each structure. 

The city is even benevolent in its guide role, choosing for artificial tiny rivers of water to guide the path as small flowers course through its currents. And Hongbin allows them to do so as well for him, choosing to follow the path they lead--after all, flowers know best. And they must be aware of the place he wants to reach right now, so leaving himself under their care is the most logical thing to do.

He lets his hood frame his face again before reaching the main street and being met with the plaza, and to the other side of it, one of the most magnificent buildings stands tall--hoarder of prayers and confessions, sins, gratitude and desperation. The Cathedral, where everyone can dare leave words that they wouldn’t tell anyone else for it can transmit even what’s locked inside the heart--but on the present time, Hongbin doesn’t know if it’s the owner of truth as he once believed it was, faith in words of God being uttered by humans now almost entirely gone.

But he allows himself to mingle with the rest of people who are seemingly running late to the grand happening that occurs in between its walls, taking in hints of chrysanthemums as he rushes through the round plaza--urgency not questioned, he may as well pose as a firm believer and no one would bat an eye. No one finds in themselves to pay attention to anything else as the voice of the bishop letting the mass commence can be heard from outside. And Hongbin wonders whether the faux is known by him or he is just being played, letting himself be trapped by the web of lies like everyone else.

It's overwhelming to stand before its grand golden wooden doors, where gargantuan flowers are etched in its surface in a maze-like manner and nymph statues watch the entrance --unavoidable to not feel small when the sense of belonging has been removed from even his name. But he repeats reassuring words, that all will be done soon and everything that makes him who he is left behind for the greater good. 

Leaving the arc of the door behind as he steps in, yellow hues caress him, light filtering through the stained glass at the top of the entrance. And he wonders when was the last time anything holy touched him, but his gaze shifts focus when the echo vibrates solemnly throughout each inch of the cathedral, the bishop's voice interrupting any daydream that could occur. 

" _May the children of Omnia gather once again to manifest their gratitude--source of life, above all gods_ , _to listen to the sacred word that its wisdom grants us. "_ Hongbin can't prevent his gaze from falling on the main altar upon mention, magnificence displaying in front of his eyes. The source of all creation painted in walls framed with the richest ornamental golden frames--and Omnia is pictured there, embellished by mortal hand to even attempt to show a sliver of its beauty. An enormous wisteria tree rises in the middle of a pink flowery field, its purple leaves falling, swirling all over the painting in calling--for life to begin, for death to make energy return to its roots. 

The cathedral is one kind of place that allows anyone to find themselves getting lost in its fantasy aura, with chains of the same kind as the tree of life that overlooks at its children, _"Vorago is blessed"_ he hears, as he tries to make his steps as silent as they can be--and Hongbin can't do anything but let himself listen, mind vaguely wondering whether Omnia finds the current situation the definition of a blessing, whether all the ever rising energy is receiving won’t make its anger rise due to the injustice. _‘Blessed’_ the bishop says, Hongbin would scoff.

His vision briefly falls on the guards that stand at the further end of the altar, and the personification of the haunting spider itself stands to each side of the man who preaches Omnia’s wisdown--Hongbin doesn’t know what’s a blessing and a curse anymore. And yet it reeks of perfection encased by the columns growing tall like that of an organ’s pipes Hongbin once saw in an old history book at the library back at home. 

_“But as much as Omnia can bless us, it can also take everything away from us when joining its rightful judgement alongside Aranea’s.”_ Hongbin can hear the echo, words starting to sting like thorns choosing to entangle themselves around his wrist. Moving away from the back of the nave, Hongbin chooses to listen from a place anyone who had arrived late would be standing at--the left side aisle, leaning against a column, eyes away from one of the only sights he is still to show respect.

_“As such,”_ the bishop continues, _“We all know no one is safe from favoritism, and the circumstances have led to this tragic outcome--our gathering today, to someone whom Omnia called back to its soils.”_ Hongbin’s hands turns into a fist, there is no need to be safe from favoritism when justice has been ripped away even from the flower’s grasp, when now it resides in actual human actions. Playing a higher judge than the one who holds in its authenticity the power to impose legitimate justice. 

_“The word today mentions of judgement, of origins and life and death and it is sadly fitting to this tragedy, a month since one of our flowers withered,_ ” there is a pause in the bishop’s words, and a tinge of uncertainty in his words that make some murmurs filter through Hongbin’s ears--how the bishop today seems to carry an abundance of uneasiness to himself albeit his solemn tone. But all Hongbin can hear now is a mix of forced deceit and nervousness, _“Children, rise”_

There is sole echo that can be heard as a result, a silence that lingers in the air of the lie that not even the cathedral knows is hearing as it makes its way through every aisle and chapel till it reaches the vaulted painted roof, _“Today marks the first month ever since one of our two royal flowers left us to return to Omnia, the youngest one,”_ and Hongbin has to be witness once again to the words that are truth to the residents of Vorago, a deception that even falls from a man of God who is being used as everyone else by someone who believes himself to be above everything else. But he listens, for the current truth to hammer itself in his mind for an unknown number of times since that night, _”A month since the unfortunate demise of his Royal Highness, Lee Hongbin, second heir to the throne and for our nation--so dearly beloved. Having left this world at the young age of twenty-five years.”_

And there is a somber cease to the bishop’s words, one that makes Hongbin sense hints of sulphur enveloping him before there is only bitterness tinting every sound that vibrates with stern assurance against each column, _“Beloved, to the nation, but is unfortunate that he was a son who made his last moments on this plane be filled with disobedience--imposing his will over his duty, over proving worthy to be heir to the crown.”_ Hongbin’s nails dig deep in his skin to the point he is sure he is going to leave crescent imprints in his otherwise unblemished palm, writing his frustration in a physical manner that way. His teeth dig on his bottom lip as the resonance doesn’t leave his mind, _disobeyed_ , that’s how he is pictured in front of his whole nation--as a selfish insolent kid who decided to oppose to what was most convenient for his country. A traitor whose origins reside in the Royal House of Vorago itself, a betrayer. 

_“A terrible loss to a father who has only guided and kept safe his two sons on his own for the last fifteen years, how cruel must the judgement be to even the Royal House itself.”_ Hongbin has to restraint the irritation coursing through him for every fault in this life seems to fall upon him at the mention, only slightly looking at the altar from the corner of his eye, seeing the red spider lilies taking over the guards’ wrists--murderous intentions clear disguised as protection, _“Let our beloved prince guide aid his father from above at last, for the King was all he knew for years.”_

Hongbin wishes to stop this deceit, tell the bishop to not dare erase the memory of his mother and replace it solely with a faux depiction of unconditional love towards his father--but he would still be blamed and killed on the spot, a bigger act of betrayal in the irises of the multitude. He hears whispering, raging from how broken-hearted the king must be having lost his wife and son to how the prince was right in the way he reacted and there is no need to tarnish his memory this way--he is still a child of Vorago they cherish.

Frustration boils through his blood, the glare in his eyes turns into a display of intense resentment he wouldn’t have ever considered he could be capable of showcasing--yet, before he is able to do anything reckless, flowers decide to provide him the calm he needs. Hyacinth envelopes the minute domains he stands in--and Hongbin smiles, letting out a weak laugh that he hopes gets lost with all the words that he has heard today, “It’s quite a surreal experience, huh?” comes with irony, head leaning against the column, gaze on the stained glass, “To be listening to a mass in commemoration in my memory.”

There is a step that ceases its journey, a presence that stands against the column’s side that faces the aisle, “But you must be hearing this time and time again.” and he knows he shouldn’t let the bitterness downpour moment he gets to speak but the offense has been too great to not allow it to reach the surface in whisper form, “My name tied to prayers and morbid thoughts aplenty--isn’t that right, Wonshik?”

“If your name hadn’t been banned in the palace, perhaps.” Hongbin only scoffs in reply, occasionally playing with one of his bracelets before a hand falls on his shoulder, a hushed _‘Stop that’_ brushing against his face.

“How nice.” it’s satire, bitterness is something that has become far more present in Hongbin’s vocabulary than ever--a characteristic that now he has to find a way to control yet can’t. Not when unjust portraying of him is happening before his eyes. Hongbin turns his head to the side, trying to keep his movements supervised so that they look like two random strangers that happened to evade punctuality on this day. His vision registers the familiar shade of platinum colouring each strand of hair from his childhood-friend-turned-royal-advisor, the lethargic vibe of his eyes in contrast to Hongbin’s vividness--the alabaster casual cloak to replace his usual silver one. He doesn’t miss the small laugh that leaves Wonshik’s lips at the acidity of his words, but perhaps he crosses a line when irony turns into self-hatred, “Yet I always knew there was nothing remarkable about me, proves to be the undeniable truth even after death.” 

“Your--” And there is an attempt to halt it, words entangled at the inability to address him properly, “Hongbin, don’t say that.” 

Hongbin sighs, the situation itself seeming like a mockery to him, “Even after death,” but deep down it haunts him, it has for years that there is some truth to his words and who he is, how it feels like being ridiculed to be called ‘ _a beloved son’_ , the hoax of a lifetime, “How silly this life is.” 

It’s perhaps to portray a sense of defeat, powerlessness to counter his words--but Wonshik sighs, expressing something he has always known since they were children, playing in the royal gardens without any care in the world other than wonder about the greatness that resided outside palace walls, “You never learnt how to love yourself after all.”

“Was I ever taught anything else?” Hongbin counters, hands grasping the edges of his cloak and grounding himself to the marbled floor this way. There was nothing else in what he calls his actual process of growing up, a sole purpose given to him-- _gifted to_ him by the gods themselves, tying him with a duty he never asked for, “The only love I was ever taught was this you see right now.”

Yet even his only known love is ripped from him, idea imposed that it is not reciprocated when the words that he abhors reach him, _“Aranea punishes all, citizens and a son of royal blood alike--letting its walls crumble down on betrayers that dare go against the fate chosen for them.”_

“Nice speech there.” Wonshik comments, “Was redacted so perfectly in the palace.” 

_“Aranea chose to bury deep underground the prince who decided to run away to avoid what was most beneficial to the nation,”_ _and Aranea isn’t like that_ , Hongbin craves to let his words attack like a thorny vine and make every lie bleed out till all the poison in them disappears, _“Unlike his Royal Highness, crowned prince Jaehwan--fulfiller of Omnia’s will, the best example of son to have in the Royal House”_

Hongbin’s eyelids fall close, preventing himself from being more broken than he is as all memories unveil, “This is all I was taught to love, Wonshik, my nation, my people--all I ever was taught to do” _and they want to rip it from me_ , he wants to add, but instead lets a grim tone escape im, tainting words that could have been said with adoration at some point, “Only my beloved Aranea.”

There is no pretense in Hongbin's words, his heart still beats for the city who collapsed behind him to save his life when he was being chased--there is no way the love he professes is a hoax but it doesn't harm him any less when that reciprocated love is pictured in ways like that, blaming him and placing his brother on a pedestal of perfection. But he can't blame Jaehwan either, there is no malice lingering in his being towards his brother--after all, he is the reason he goes on, but he masks it through jokes to try find that original upbeat side he used to hold at some point in life, “And Jaehwan, but he doesn’t count.”

And Wonshik laughs, sound seeping through Hongbin's ears and giving him that warmth of familiarity he is in need of right now, "Sure, he doesn't count, Hongbin, you certainly aren't here because of him."

Before he can answer Wonshik, he cannot help but to pick on someone mumbling, saying how they cannot help but pity prince Jaehwan, how he doesn't deserve to be married off against his will--how there is no benefit, that prince Hongbin did well even if it led to his death. Murmurs that the word today is extremely odd in its nature when the bishop before had only said good things about prince Hongbin. And there are the words of a little girl asking her mother whether prince Jaehwan is in love with his fiancé, if that's the reason why now he is the chosen one-- _'perhaps he found his soulmate?',_ and the woman replies to her child that if prince Jaehwan's fiancé isn't his soulmate then may Omnia help his soul. 

Hongbin feels Wonshik's shoulder brushing against his own, touch of rich alabaster caressing his brown cloak, "Your--Hongbin, can we-" he stutters, clearing his throat as he shifts in his place, discomfort abound.

“At least you learnt love,” Hongbin isn't sure if his words can make any ease course through his friend, if it can give Wonshik any consolation--light coughing controlling him as Hongbin attempts to find more proper words. But he can't avoid pointing out the truth, _at least Wonshik did learn what love was,_ “Wrong time, wrong place, yet learnt it nonetheless.”

Weak laughter replaces the intercepted coughing, perhaps with strokes of having been bested by the reality of the matters, “Do I hope it doesn’t happen to you.”

“At this rate…” Hongbin trails off, there is no possible reality in which he can now experience something that wasn't ever to happen--the love taught, the duty imposed was going to prevent it and he was fine with it. Albeit there always having been a curiosity to feel all the messages that flowers hold materializing into something tangible, someone who could break through the perpetual spring and bring an actual one in his life. But there is no time for him to think of pointless what-ifs that have no place in the life he is leading now, “...Not even if I were to be shot at, Wonshik.”

There may be objections coming his way, the beginnings of a counterattack to his words from someone touched by said all consuming feeling seems to be forming--and as retaliation, Hongbin raises his hand, halting any words that Wonshik may want to say, "Back to our issue, we already lost enough time like this--albeit it being entertaining to see your romantic side attempting to flourish in front of me."

"Can't let go of that behaviour." Wonshik says, extending his hand so that it touches Hongbin's one that rests against his side. Hongbin mutters a low 'wait', reaching inside his cloak and taking from an inner pocket an envelope, the only way for his words to be heard back at the palace--the only way the plans to put a halt to this madness can reach his brother before there is no way to return to a tranquility only the state of _'death'_ could offer them.

"Here," says Hongbin, fingers gracing against Wonshik's when the royal advisor takes the envelope in his grasp, "Careful, they are ready to shoot--spider lilies are growing from them, they have murdered." Hongbin advices as Wonshik attempts to not be evident--after all, he can be recognized and it would make alarms rise in the palace if they see him doing anything suspicious. 

"Don't think they would try here--"

"They are ready to kill the bishop on sight--I felt the sulphur when he was talking nicely about me," Hongbin mentions, crossing his arms over his chest as he tilts his head to the side--a playful smile somehow playing in his lips, "What makes you think they won't shoot you when they were ready to kill their prince?"

"Oh I'm flattered." Hongbin turns to the side briefly to see Wonshik placing the envelope inside his cloak, and he breathes out a long relief sigh. Words will reach his brother and they will soon be away from Vorago the moment all is over, perhaps life won't be as grand as they are accustomed to but anything is better than staying in the chasm that the king is about to make Vorago become. 

"Lovely, while you are at it, we have to make haste," Hongbin says, fixing his hood as the desire to just leave makes itself more detectable to him, "Time is slipping away."

"You should stay until the blessing is done."

Hongbin shrugs, there is no way he is hearing more offensive words--no matter if they come from the bishop himself. He has heard plenty of offense hidden behind the facade of a life filled with only glorious showcases of luxury that did nothing but to make him spiral in ideas of ephemeral happiness. Transitory for he hasn't been able to experience that emotion since his childhood years. But Omnia doesn't deserve the disrespect, so he reconsiders, "The palace is an insane haze in preparation, there wasn't enough time to mourn your death--so they did this."

"Respect has been something that I haven't properly experienced in more than a decade." Hongbin states, aware that Wonshik understands the bitter origin of his words and there isn't any logic in trying to convince him that there is anything different--they tried to murder him. And then pronounced him dead in the eyes of all the nation, allowed for the words to latch onto his memory be that of traitor. Twisted rumours even having reached some corners of the capital as there were even minor claimings of the Prince having refused his engagement out of not wanting to break a supposed soulmate bond--framing him as selfish, unable to take the pain and put his nation first and foremost. But they left as soon as they came, and Hongbin can only even feel grateful now when his nation doesn't seem to hold resentment towards him, and it makes him certain that no matter what is said of him--at least he will have the assurance that Aranea hasn't lost all hope in him. That if they knew what he is about to do, they would applaud that he is rescuing his brother from that, "Tomorrow at the Main Plaza, moment the clock marks midday."

His indications are answered with a hum, there is still an air of royalty embracing his tone--apparent orders sounding like that of a gracious sovereign that doesn't use authority in an unpleasant way to force his power upon his reigns. Yet the one painted as magnanimous is his father, and he remembers at some point--he actually believed that as well. But when the mass is reaching its end and the bishop still keeps that faux that even he has made see as absolute truth, he knows that there is nothing salvageable in his father _, "Shall the spirit of Prince Hongbin guide the path his older brother Jaehwan must now walk on, enlighten the path he refused to take--allow for his love to reach Prince Hongbin."_

"Hongbin-" but Hongbin places a hand on Wonshik's cloak, stopping him from uttering any other words for the unknown defiant way the bishop speaks will not make him waver again, not when he has too many things occupying his mind--a tarnished memory is better than an imminent merciless death crawling up his lungs, wrapping around his throat. 

Hongbin dusts off his cloak as a caution measure, feeling the sulphur emanating from the guards is irritating--their intention to sin high and if it would materialize, Hongbin feels it would latch onto his clothes. But the fraud is soon to be over, the traditional blessing awaiting, _“May the soul of his Royal Highness find the peace all children of Omnia are worthy of.”_ Hongbin can't avoid the scoff that leaves him, neither can't help sneering--the levels of irony he is witness of make him want to cut the play in front of them, but only a few selected know they are part of the cast. And the bishop isn't. 

A swift turn on his heels, a defiant backwards walk with his head raised high and his eyes fixed on the altar for only Omnia has the right to take him after his judgement--and Wonshik stares at him, incredulously, "Won't ever change." he whispers, low enough for Hongbin to hear, unmoving from the side of the column he is leaning against. 

The words that follow ring truth, and those are the only ones Hongbin finds himself accepting of, his right hand rests against his heart in unison _, “And may the blessings of Omnia befall us all until the day we return to its soil.”_

"Simplex verum, bishop.” A bow, like any child of Vorago would, accepting it as the only truth albeit Hongbin having total ownership of the authentic one, " _Simplex verum._ " Hongbin locks his gaze with Wonshik, who can't help but reply in the same manner--still astonished that Hongbin had it in himself to respond after hearing everything that was said of him. 

He leaves the Cathedral to embrace the echoes from the citizens' prayers, hundreds of people whom he couldn't even begin naming yet still display respect albeit all they hear--voices becoming one with the religious building until they reach the roof of the tallest of its towers, signing in its walls that one of the beloved children is gone. By his own mistakes, by a final judgement from the city who he had grown up to represent and perhaps even lead. And before he fully turns to exit, his hopes that the prayers at least protect him come to jeopardize his determined behaviour momentarily--bitterness doing its job settling in him. After all, the title isn't tied to him anymore by name, only by nature. 

His steps fall into a rhythmic cadence, a weird sensation akin to warmth filling his chest--perhaps it really has been too much to handle. Surreal as he had said. But he passes the arc, leaving behind the nave and the sacred Omnia image to bless his nation. 

Warm breezes caresses him, Vorago is still lenient in providing him fresh air and letting him get momentarily entranced by its unique visual, worthy of a nation that never wanted to taint itself with any kind of modern architecture--all raises like a small scale replica worthy of a museum the further the constructions are.

And that indicates that he is soon to leave this plaza and return to the place where he can allow himself to find rest and relax until the following day. So he walks, into the warmth marble touched by the sun, into the low roofing area where small businesses try to welcome him as he mingles like any citizen. _Welcomed_ , the city always welcomes him even if there is a game being played as he travels through its streets--yet it's encouraging, warmth with its busy aspect as any capital can be. In his exhaustion, he can still find it in himself to smile, even when he occasionally bumps into random passersby who apologize with a kind smile on their face to the Prince whom they believe gone. 

Hongbin wishes he could remain in the capital, it is closer to his real home even if he won't ever set foot in a place that still holds all his memories engraved in its walls, whispers travelling across gardens for the flowers to still remember. But his new reality still offers this warmness the most touristy area holds--he believes the people that live here have as much luck as the ones who reside on the area past the division. Where far more people live without trouble, the ones who don't have a noble title tied to their name just indulging in that vision of perfection--a place for the middle class for there is no poverty to compromise their way of living even without the riches, but there is nothing lacking that could threaten them.

Laughter and chatter stay twirling in the air, journeying throughout the blocks upon blocks that Hongbin has passed and left behind as he reaches what is known as The Division--a set of fortresses surrounding the main area of the capital, each taking the role of a bridge to descend into the far more residential area of Aranea. The side of the city that protects him and covers him, takes him under its protection as he is allowed to rest from the more guarded parts of Aranea for the amount of guards is considerably lesser there. Hongbin approaches the rounded barrier that passes like a balcony, marble bricks supporting him as he takes in the view of the many houses and small buildings. A sight he wants to tattoo into his pupils before he parts the country, one he wishes he could show Jaehwan fully. 

He descends one of round staircases that unfurl at each side of the fortress, steps quickly dashing down ivory shimmery stone. Hand always on the railing which is held by small flowery columns made of marble which somehow still gives a flowy feeling to the structure that aids him as he walks down, reaching the bottom where a small garden resides--making the enormous fortress look dreamy still, with vines of jasmine hanging from some parts of the bricks. A waterfall of purity exhibiting itself for the citizens.

A wish for that flower to cover the city in a protective blanket forms, for it to find a way to rid of the injustice and only allow for beauty and an untainted state to take over. But it remains as simple musings while Hongbin turns and steps into the welcoming streets that await him. 

The difference from the capital is notorious, the more blocks he passes by and the warmer the shades become to be replaced by similar structures in earthy tones--as if they had been kissed by the sun in what he can imagine as the definition of summer that textbooks mention, golden, sunset-like. So far untarnished by the web of the spider that's ready to murder. With smiles reflecting in windows from bakeries and small coffee shops, with freshness emanating from fruits and vegetables that have just arrived and call out to be bought. 

Hongbin's mind momentarily gets lost in the now familiar side of Vorago he didn't have much contact with before or at all--only having rushed by on some occasions when he was a child taken on vacation to the shores. And he doesn't notice when he bumps into a small girl from one of the flower shops that's some blocks away from the place he is living at, a basket of flowers lying next to her and small bouquets of lavender scattered all around her figure, "Sorry, are you alright?" he says, crouching in front of the little girl.

He sees her look and hears her mumble an apology, eyes opening wide when they look into his own, "Oh! Cloak boy who moved some time ago." she says with that childlike innocence painting her every word. 

"The one and only." he playfully replies, helping her gather the lavender bouquets that had fallen off, "Let's both be careful next time." he hasn't really ever known how to properly deal with children, having always been the youngest but somehow he finds interacting with the random children an easy feat when their behaviour gives him nothing but comfort. Tranquility provided by them not knowing who he is in reality. 

"It's past midday--have you prayed?" He gets asked, and Hongbin just nods in response--thinking that after all his visit to the Cathedral should count as prayers, "Mom says Omnia deserves prayers at this time of the day." 

"And at midnight and at the late hours of the night," he interrupts with a smile and a pat on her head, "I am aware, have lived twenty-five years."

"You are old." Hongbin laughs at the conclusion that has been reached by the little flower girl and hands her all the lavender bouquets that he managed to pick.

"Yeah, I'm old, may as well return to Omnia one day." he jokes but the frown in her face makes Hongbin scrunch his nose, " It's a joke little one, I'm nowhere near to return to Omnia." he is aware he shouldn't be outside more than usual, but it's refreshing to talk to normal citizens--an early afternoon talk with a hug from lavender is always enjoyable.

"You are old but not old enough to be part of it." the little girl tells him and Hongbin nods his head, but he sees the little girl's eyes widening and her cheerful expression falls, "Omnia must be calling." she says with a small sob intercepting her words, and Hongbin tilts his head in confusion until he catches what the little girl refers to--an intense coughing fit tearing through the calm air and disrupting its serenity. 

It reeks of carnations, yellow ones, his lungs filling with a sensation full of rejection and he turns around to see a young couple, a young girl on her knees being held tight to a youth around her age that asks her to forgive him for this, a bed of yellow carnation petals stained with scarlet drops surrounding them both. The little flower girl clings to Hongbin and he pats her back when he hears her ask him whether that happens to everyone when they are about to meet with Omnia, and Hongbin can only answer "No...that is not Omnia's call." and places his head on top of the flower girl's head, "That's humans harming each other when stepping outside their bond, hanahaki." 

He urges the flower girl to enter, announcing he has to leave and as he stands up, he is given a small lavender bouquet which he tries to breathe in as he holds it close to his chest to somehow diminish the scent of carnations and unrequited love lingering. _Omnia is wise_ , Hongbin believes, yet it also puts all their children at the brink of death if their love isn't returned, if there is far too much love but not a soulmate bond to them. _Omnia is wise_ , it's only a way to ensure everyone finds true happiness--but at times he isn't sure it can be reached. 

Leaving the heartbreak behind and praying for the girl's soul is all he can do--albeit his nature urging him to do something if she is to actually to become one with Earth again. But he forces his steps to lead him towards the place where he will be at in awaiting until the next day--prompting himself to go faster when he sees in one of the further ends of the block a pair of guards entering a building. 

Hongbin rushes to his own block before there is even some chance to be seen, accessing one of the buildings with bronze-coloured bricks and staircase to the side--hastily making himself reach the second floor and dash down the hallway to find himself knocking on the medium oak door of the furthest flat, "Quick, quick, quick" he mutters, uneasiness taking hold of him despite not having seen any flowers in the guards' hands. 

When his hand is about to make contact with the wooden surface once more, it misses--opening itself in front of him and Hongbin forces his way in with urgency, shutting the door behind him and resting against it, breathing ragged, "Your Highness?"

"Don't ask, Sanghyuk." Hongbin says, eyes shutting briefly as he regains his breath.

"That took longer than usual." Hongbin sees mahogany hovering over him, soft eyes gazing at him with concern as an insignia is quickly fixed on a flowy white shirt. Hongbin just sighs weakly and nods, "Exhausted?"

"Mentally and physically--wait until you know how it feels to hear a mass in your memory." Hongbin mutters, hood falling off his head as he lets his body fall on one of the three couches in the living room. Light turning golden thanks to the curtains of the same tone.

"Quite surreal, right your Highness?" Sanghyuk asks, not without somehow letting cockiness cascade over his words.

A roll of the eyes, words from the bishop resonating with all its irony in Hongbin's mind, "As surreal as it can be when you hear that it was Aranea's the one who decided to punish you."

"The books claim that is what shall happen, only logical they believe so " he says but before Hongbin can even answer, the bell rings, interrupting the brief chit chat, "but the books never mentioned saving."

"A bookworm like you could try look for it--you have all that knowledge in your hands." Sanghyuk tries his best not to laugh at the prince's behaviour and tilts his head without answering Hongbin entirely.

"This bookworm has taxes to pay, go hide, your highness."

And Hongbin understands really fast that right now there is nothing else to do but what he has been doing for the past month, quickly rushing down the hall and into the spare room he is now using. Door shut behind him, finding now the rest that Vorago has been preventing him from obtaining so easily. Given him the option plenty of times to choose the eternal one instead even when being protected by alabaster rising all around him, but he knows both him and Aranea are aware that said day isn't to take place today.

  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

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**Author's Note:**

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